The First Rebel
by shards-of-darkness
Summary: Katniss Everdeen is known to be the spark of the rebellion. But the rebellion was there long before her. The story of Delfi Ventera, a stylist from District 6 who made the first act of rebelling.
1. Chapter 1

My name? Why do _you _want to know? If you learn my name, you'll only bring worse things to your fate. Fine, if you insist on knowing: My name is Delfi Ventera, and you must never say it again. Not until the rebellion becomes a war. My name is forbidden, so you'd most likely get your head chopped off by the president himself. Whether you lived in the Capitol or the Districts all your life, you've probably never heard of me. Because _I_ was the one that sparked the first rebellion.

I grew up, watching the Hunger Games. They had started about 5 years before I was even born. My family would sit on comfy couches stuffed with goose feathers and drink delicious cocktails as we were all spell bounded to the T.V. My father was one of the president's advisors, so we'd get front seats at the opening ceremonies. Sometimes, my father would let me throw a special red rose at one of the tributes.

I loved it. Getting days off from school so we could watch the Games. Often, I'd gather all my friends together at my house, and we'd cheer on a tribute. Me and my friends always dressed in style, whether it was fluffy dresses with animal print, or 8 inch high heels and purple highlights in our hair. I was very fascinated in fashion, so that's where my job came in.

I begged my parents when I was 20 to get a job as a stylist. Of course, they argued and said I should get into government work, but I refused. They finally gave in, and I was inducted as one of the stylists for the Games.

I got District 6, and I was pretty happy. For 18 years, I styled my female tributes in beautiful tacky gowns. My partner, Regur, dressed the male tributes in suits.

My life was amazing. I went to so many parties, and I met the man of my dreams. We had a child, Rosemary, a beautiful blond girl with her daddy's blue eyes. She was perfect. I could only see her for short times though, because I was always busy designing clothes for my next tributes.

But during the 42nd Games, a deadly fire broke out in my house. I watched, horrified, as the flames lick the antique wood and everything crumbled to ashes on live television. Both my husband and my darling child was killed. Rosemary was only twelve. I was at a party during the tragedy, and now, all I feel is guilt. I wasn't even allowed to go to their funerals because of the Games. I wake up screaming for my daughter to run. Rosemary was too young, too innocent to die.

After their deaths, nightmares began viciously attacking me. I dreamt of my little girl in the Hunger Games, as cruel tributes from 1 and 2 slit her throat. I would wake up screaming her name, only to realize that she was already dead.

Today is Reaping Day. I peer into my 100 inch flat screen T.V. alone, as I watch who the tributes are for District 6. The escort reaches into a glass bowl, taking out the slip for the female tribute. "Florence Coleman." She announces. A woman (her mother, I guess) screams, as Florence walks to the stage. The camera zooms in on her face, as tears stream down her pale cheeks. I blink, and I feel a chill run down my back. She looks just like Rosemary. A pang attacks my heart. I start staring into space, as everything drones out. Florence _is _Rosemary. She has to be. My little girl has been reborn.


	2. Chapter 2

I finally get to meet her. The opening ceremonies are _today. _I think I got her whole costume figured. Since District 6 is transportation, I decided to make her wear a dress with swirling roads. Regur wanted to dress them as buses, but that idea is way too cliche.

As I dress Florence, I can see her beautiful blue eyes looking somewhere far away. "Where are you looking at?" I ask her.

"I'm trying to see home. Maybe I can't see the District 6 here, but I know it's out there somewhere." She intrigues me. Like my own daughter, she has an aura of wiseness and curiosity although she is only 12.

"Well, I'm sure you'll really see home soon," I tell her. "You will win these Games." I feel a little horrible about lying to her. Florence is underfed, scrawny, and weak. But she is certainly clever. Perhaps clever enough to win.

"I don't want to go home." She tells me.

"Why not?" I am completely mystified.

Florence begins fiddling with her hair. "I don't want to see my sister anymore," she says. "She told me…." Florence bursts into tears, but she continues in a whisper. "My sister told me that she would always protect me if I was reaped. But she didn't. All she did was mouth 'I'm sorry' at me. I thought she loved me." I feel a sudden stab in my chest. I had sung to Rosemary many lullabies about meadows and that she would always be safe. Yet I couldn't save her from the fire.

Florence's life has begun to mirror her dress. Full of so many roads, but now she's stuck in a dead end.

I help her stand in the wobbly chariot as she grips my hand for balance. Her hand is warm, and for a moment, I feel like I'm holding Rosemary again. When Florence finally grabs ahold of the chariot sides, I am forced to let go. I straighten and smooth the hem of her dress. "Good luck," I smile softly at her. She nods back at me.

"District 6!" The announcers call and the chariot moves forward. I fight back the urge to run after the horses and make sure Florence doesn't lose her balance.

I feel sick to the pit of my stomach as we watch the training scores pop onto the screen. All the tributes from 1,2,and 4 have all earned 10s. The District 6 boy (Abelen) has earned an impressive 8. My fingers curl tightly around the fabric of a pillow that I'm clutching. "Florence Coleman," the T.V. blares. "3!"

Slowly, I sink deeply into the couch. 3 is a horrible score! She'll never get sponsors. Florence begins to cry, and I start holding her. Abelen stares at us as if we're crazy, but he lowers his stare when I shoot him a dirty look.

"It'll be alright," I whisper in her ear. I almost say, "Mommy will take care of you," but I bite my tongue hard before it can slip. I let her cry into my shoulder, and I rub her back lovingly. _What is wrong with me? I'm not supposed to care about my tributes in this way!_


	3. Chapter 3

Today is the Games. The day I lose Florence. I woke up early in the morning to help her dress. Florence cries and hugs me the whole time. I shed a few tears of my own. I hug her back, my heart breaking into pieces too small to mend.

We are led to the launch room, where I wait with Florence for Claudius Templesmith to announce the tributes to get on the plates.

"Prepare for launch," a Gamemaker announces. Slowly, Florence begins to walk toward the cylinder. My _daughter _is walking toward her death. No, I tell myself harshly. She is not my daughter. My daughter is dead. But still, I cannot control myself.

"No!" I cry, and I shove her out of the way. Florence stumbles and falls to the floor. She stares at me, confused. I run toward the cylinder before she can reach it. The glass appears around me as they slowly lift me up.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I've watch 18 young girls step into this trap, to be murdered cruelly. And I used to love these Games. Now, I see that these Games are nothing but sick and twisted.

Suddenly, I remember Florence's dress during the opening ceremonies. I can see the roads on it. And I realize this: the road of my life, was straight. But Florence gave me a detour, and in exchange, I have pulled her out of a dead end.

The floor moves until I am outdoors. I can feel the sun shining down on my back, and wind ruffling my hair. A camera hovers right in front of my face. I stare back at it defiantly, until the Gamemakers realize their mistake a moment later. The mine under my feet blows up. I look at the sun one last time, before I am blown to bits.

I feel no pain, though. I float up, looking down at the mess of my remains as I cringe. I see the gong ringing and only 23 tributes racing towards the Cornucopia. I smile a little, knowing that at least I saved one tribute from a savage end.

I know what everyone watching saw: the tribute that blew up was not a twelve year old girl, but a 38 year old stylist. I made my mark.

I drift upward, not knowing where I am going, but I do know this- there is always another road.

**Thank you so much for reading my first fanfiction! Please review! **


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